


were there crossroads where you've been?

by jessejackal



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Whump, Blood, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Off-Screen First Time Killing Someone, Young Arthur Morgan, Young Dutch van der Linde, dutch whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 17:41:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19114564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessejackal/pseuds/jessejackal
Summary: Arthur comes back to camp drenched in blood.





	were there crossroads where you've been?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Feralfawl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feralfawl/gifts).



Hosea and Bessie are deep in a game of dominoes, their chatting a pleasant hum in Dutch's ears. He himself is finishing up a drawing of the little draft foal, born just days right here in their camp, when he hears the sound of hooves stepping on the dry leaves scattered across the clearing.  
  
It’s a calm evening. Peaceful, Dutch would say, so this is why when he looks up, it takes a moment for him to see. To understand.  
  
It’s Boadicea. Her chestnut coat has a blue, metallic tint under the dark blue of the evening sky. Arthur’s in the saddle. He's looking forward, and he's clutching the reins, and Boadicea’s making distressed sounds—enough to draw the other horses’ attention.  
  
Arthur’s wearing another coat, maybe, Dutch thinks before what he sees registers.  
  
Arthur looks like someone got beheaded over him.  
  
Dutch’s on his feet before he can think. He puts his journal on the table, pats Hosea's shoulder to get his attention, all quiet, all slow gestures.  
  
Hosea looks at Dutch and then follows his gaze all the way to Arthur. Dutch can tell the exact moment Bessie sees, too. Her chair creaks as she jumps, slapping palms over her mouth just in time to not cry out.  
  
“Bessie, please warm up some water.” Hosea is the first to break the silence. He stands up, slower than Dutch did. They’re shoulder to shoulder like that—and not one of them dares to move closer. “Arthur?”  
  
Arthur doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look at them. He just clenches his fist, pulling the reins enough to further distress Boadicea. She’s a young horse—as young as Arthur, broken not three months ago. Now she’s dancing in place, beating up the dust with one hoof, snorting. Her eyes are almost entirely white.  
  
Dutch notices now that she turns, showing more of her side, that everything around her saddle is red. The leather, the blanket, her coat. Red’s oozing down her front legs.  
  
“Oh god, Arthur.”  
  
He snaps out of it, jumps up to him. Boadicea rears, lowly. Hosea, right on his heels, takes her by the bit to keep her down—tries to, before Arthur’s putting spurs in her sides.  
  
The horse damn nearly jumps over them, skids to a stop, rears again. All the while Arthur’s pulling on the reins, holding too tight to fall, but enough to topple both of them.  
  
“ _Arthur_ , Arthur—Arthur, please, tell us where you’re hurt!” Hosea’s at his side again, and this time, Dutch helps.  
  
He pulls at the reins, taking them from Arthur’s hands.  
  
Arthur’s still clenching his fists despite not holding anything. Hosea puts a palm on his thigh and that works, somewhat. Boadicea dances around Dutch in a circle as he holds her, spurred by Arthur again, but she doesn’t bolt.  
  
Arthur looks at them, and for a moment Dutch thinks that he, too, has only the whites of his eyes visible.  
  
It’s fleeting, but the blank stare on Arthur’s face sends Dutch into panic. Sure, the amount of blood’s _bad_ , but Arthur’s never frozen up before, not like this.  
  
With Hosea’s help they drag him out of the saddle. Arthur stumbles a few steps on his own, but then grips at Dutch’s vest tight enough to rip the fabric and slumps on the ground.  
  
They’re patting him down. Hosea’s voice now distant in Dutch’s ears. He only hears his own heartbeat, ripping buttons out of Arthur’s shirt and union suit as he searches for anything—a knife still stuck in his ribs, an entry wound, anything.  
  
He finds nothing. Pats down his thighs, takes Arthur’s neck in his hands to feel it. He's all wet, sticky with drying blood—but it’s not his.  
  
It’s not his.  
  
“What happened, Arthur?” Dutch’s voice is distorted in his own ears. He can’t imagine what it must sound like to Arthur, if he can hear anything at all. He certainly doesn’t look like he can.  
  
“He—he needs a bath, Dutch. I never seen...”  
  
“I know, I know. But it’s not that bad, right, Arthur? C’mon, get up, here, son.” Dutch takes most of his weight, hugging Arthur’s shoulders with one hand. Arthur's shaking—short, small, constant trembles run through his body as Hosea helps navigate him to Dutch’s tent.  
  
He’s lying to himself, he’s lying to Hosea. He’s never seen this much blood before. Killed people, sure. Hosea and he both have. Hell, non-outlawed folk in this country have to kill someone at some point. Arthur would, and with the life they’re living, sooner rather than later.  
  
Dutch never could’ve imagined it would happen like this, though.  
  
They sit Arthur on Dutch’s cot. Bessie drags in a bucket full of steaming water. She has a stern glint in her eyes, almost as far away as Arthur’s, and Dutch understands. She still thinks Arthur’s been wounded.  
  
“He's fine,” he says hastily and bites his tongue. “Blood’s not his.”  
  
Bessie visibly relaxes and then, as if on cue, starts trembling. “Oh, dear. I thought—I thought—”  
  
“We’re gonna be okay,” Dutch says.  
  
Hosea looks at him, nods once. Takes a clean rag from the chest in the corner. “Bessie, please look to his horse, poor creature's all covered…” In blood. “Or maybe you shouldn’t.”  
  
“Let’s not crowd him. I can manage here,” Dutch says. Hosea’s hesitant. He lingers, standing on one knee next to Dutch and the cot. Dutch tugs the clean rag from his fingers, repeating Hosea’s own words, “Please see to the horse.”  
  
With one last look at Arthur, Hosea leaves with Bessie.  
  
Dutch wets the rag with the hot water. It’s not scalding, but an uncomfortable temperature. The blood’s in Arthur’s hair and on his skin, it’s soaked through his clothes, too. Has dried on his face, and Dutch gently starts to rub. First Arthur’s forehead and his nose, then his cheeks.  
  
He almost looks like himself once Dutch’s done. Still shaking, still looking ahead at nothing.  
  
“It’s alright, son,” Dutch says softly. He remembers his first kill. Hoped to forget it for many years as it had been a messy business. Dutch doesn’t want to admit it’s changed him, first time killing someone—but it did. It damn fucking did. “You’re gonna be alright.”  
  
Arthur’s shirt is already ripped, so Dutch carefully works to take it off his shoulders, get him naked down to his waist. The skin isn’t as bad here—most of the blood hasn’t soaked through to it—so Dutch simply wipes at his shoulders. They’re still bloody, but it’s merely a mist.  
  
“Gotta change these clothes, boy,” he says. Sighs when there’s no reaction. Finds his fingers pressing on the bridge of his nose too tight, feels his own skin get a bit sticky with all this dirt.  
  
He unbuckles the first clasp on Arthur’s chaps when the boy’s body jolts before completely stilling. Even the smallest trembles stop.  
  
“Arthur?”  
  
Arthur looks at him almost reluctantly. His green eyes are wide and now that he’s looking, he's looking everywhere like he can’t choose what to focus on. His eyes jump from Dutch to around the tent to his own palm, cradled between Dutch’s. When he sees the red rag, he yelps.  
  
“I-I— I’m sorry, I—”  
  
“It’s okay, son, breathe. _Breathe_.” Dutch breathes with him, running small circles with his thumb on Arthur’s palm. “You’re okay.”  
  
Arthur takes a shuddering breath. His shoulders sag and he twitches, hands moving to cover himself as he finally notices he’s only wearing his boots and pants.  
  
“Here.” Dutch offers him his shirt, the first one he can reach, and returns to taking off his chaps and boots. Puts them aside when he’s done. “I'm gonna take the bucket outside and bring you some pants. Will be just a moment, okay, Arthur?”  
  
Arthur nods after a second of silence—Dutch doubts he can consider anything, but hopes he heard him, or he’s still too stunned to react to being alone.  
  
Hosea meets him when he steps outside the tent. His hands are red, red hairs sticking to them after he's washed up Boadicea. Seeing that, Dutch notices that he isn’t much better, hands red and dripping—it's water, not blood, but it's pink where it soaks into the sleeves of his shirt.  
  
“Just lookin’ for a change of clothes,” Dutch says.  
  
Bessie has a set of clean clothes ready in a flash—socks, pants, a shirt and a union suit, all Arthur’s. Dutch nods and returns to his tent, where Arthur’s sitting now with Dutch’s too big dress shirt over his shoulders.  
  
He hasn’t buttoned it up, but the stark white of the fabric sports pink prints of his fingers where Arthur was touching it to put it on.  
  
“Here,” Dutch says and looks at the clothes in his hands. Arthur looks there, too, and neither of them move for a minute. “I’m sorry, son, it’s—it’s okay.”  
  
He fishes out the pants from the pile, turns away while Arthur undresses himself and puts the clean pair on, and stands like that awhile longer before he’s sure Arthur got it.  
  
Arthur did. His face is red, redder than after Dutch’s washed him. It’s almost endearing, almost inappropriate for him to react now in a situation like this. But it’s good, it’s good. If it means Arthur’s not completely gone, Dutch’ll take it.  
  
He helps Arthur under his blanket and sits on the floor, leaning on the cot. They spend an hour like this if not more before Arthur’s breathing evens out and grows deeper. The boy’s bad at pretending to sleep and there’s no way he can pull that off now, so Dutch breathes a sigh of relief, scrambles out of his own tent—and runs into Hosea again.  
  
“How is he?” Hosea asks, voice lower than a whisper.  
  
Dutch thinks he didn’t hear him, but instead felt the words in his chest.  
  
He wraps his arms around Hosea, buries his face in the man’s collar, and sobs. “Christ, he’s, he’s—”  
  
Hosea tenses, his fingers dig into Dutch’s back, and before the older man can barge into the tent and wake Arthur up Dutch speaks again, gripping him tighter—to keep Hosea in place or for Dutch’s own sake, he isn’t quite sure.  
  
“No-no-no, he’s, he’s— alive,” the word ‘okay’ won’t leave his mouth, feeling like the biggest lie. “Christ, Hosea, _he’s just a kid_.”  
  
It was Dutch’s insistence Arthur learns to shoot. To hunt, to ride a horse proper, like a self-respecting outlaw should, knowing how to put his trust in the iron and the animal. He took Arthur hunting and he took Arthur robbing—he should’ve known today would happen, sooner or later.  
  
But Dutch hadn't been prepared for this.  
  
“He was, he was… _soaking_ , Hosea, just—the water was completely red before I was even done—”  
  
Hosea’s telling him something. He’s just as distressed, maybe just as disappointed in himself, but Dutch can’t feel that.  
  
He can only feel his knees buckling and hot tears in his eyes. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what to do, how to go around this tomorrow, how to help Arthur if he can’t help himself.  
  
All his calmness, the control and the confidence, everything’s washed away with that damn blood.  
  
“We’re gonna be okay,” Hosea promises.  
  
He means it. Dutch knows he does; knows Hosea isn’t lying.  
  
But for the moment, all he can do is wrap his hands tighter, willing the tears and the silent sobs to go away.

**Author's Note:**

> Huge love to Mako for editing this fic❤️


End file.
